Kasa Magazine: Our Second Graduation Issue

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All college graduates should be celebrated. For their tenacity and apparent discipline, they deserve kudos. Why single out Black graduates? As the Director of Africana Studies, I see all too often the particular struggles that Students of Color face in academic life. There are still barriers of racial discrimination predicated on overt and not-so-overt ignorance. Just yesterday, one Student of Color shared with me her feelings of disgust and frustration when an advi-sor condescendingly suggested to her, “Because of your background, it may be best if you take courses which are not too rigorous…”.The operative word being ‘background’. As one colleague puts it, ‘It is

Yes, all graduates must be celebrated but KASA magazine is a space set apart for Black expression and “speaking up” (the meaning of the West African term, kasa) about people of African descent, our ex-periences, trials unique to our cultural and racial sojourn in a nation that is not yet post-racial and our triumphs. So, Mo ne yo in West African Twi! And, Hongera in Swahili from Kenya. And, E ku orire in Nigerian Yoruba. And, oh yes, don’t forget the African American version, complete with the uniquely African American intonation, Congraaaatulaaations! With daps all around and plenty of smiles we celebrate all who have earned a college degree and the wonderful, beautiful Black graduates among them!

From Dr. Vanessa Wynder Quainoo, DirectorURI Africana Studies


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“A noun is a person, place, or things. Andreea, what would be an example of a place?” The school was winding down to a close for the year as summer approached and, though my students may have been physically in the classroom, mentally they were already off wandering around the city eating Shaormas, catching frogs in streams by the monasteries, and hiking through the Carpathians. Nevertheless, I was committed to getting one last concept across to the class. “Andreea,” I inquired again, “What is a place?”

“Ana.” “Ana is not a place. Where are we right now?” “We are . . . in vara- summer- . . .” “No, I mean where are we right now?” I gestured to the classroom. “Nu stiu! – Not sure!-” “Andre ea, we are in class. Classroom is a place! School is a place! Romania is a place! Place is important! Remember place!” “Are you listening to yourself?” I thought. “Jesus Christ, I need a vacation.” A sense of place in the world is a serious feeling for some people. A friend of mine in Romania spoke of her heritage, saying, “I’m Ukrainian, Bulgarian, German, English, and Romanian, so it’s hard for me to call any one place home.” I see myself as sharing an origin and heritage with the rest of the world in the Olduvai Gorge of Tanzania. However, when it comes to socialization, I generally say that I’m from Ireland and Italy, which is where my family’s ancestors were from at one point. Our heritage was just from somewhere else before that. In my own mind I see these two western European locations of Italy and Ireland as dots on a map of my family’s migration from Lucy’s town in Olduvai. My family’s ancestral trek from the town of humanity’s origin into Europe begins winding its way up the coast of East Africa through Tanzania, Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan, Egypt; a hop over the Mediterranean pond, possibly a jaunt through the edge of Asia in Turkey, and, given the pre-history

north towards the Atlantic’s giant islands off the coast of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. This explanation, however, would have people yawning in normal conversation so Irish and Italian stay as they are, though, given

ancestors who spent at least some time in Kenya. In Romania, when it comes to guessing my heritage, I usually get one of three responses: Spanish, Italian, or French, though French tends to come only if I tell them to think fast. Italian was the most common, but Span-

When I told my wonderful students I was going to Italy they responded, “Oh great, Mr. Aran, have fun at home!” “You guys know I’m from America, right.” “Nu! Esti din Italia! –No! You are from Italy!- Mama Mia! Pizzeria! Italia!” “Kids, if I’m from Italy, why am I teaching you English?” “You learn Engleza in Italia and you come here because you want Romanian girl. Romanian girl for Mr. Aran.” It was hopeless. And so I prepared to leave for my pseudo-home-land of Italia, packed my bags, and took the train to Bucharest as my family was in transit across the Atlantic. On the way to an event at which we were both volunteering another Peace Corps volunteer had shown angst about how he would be perceived, being both Haitian-American and Italian-American, in Bucharest. “In the village I was just the foreign American, but here I’m not sure how people will react to me on the street. What will they think I am? Will they think I’m Roma?” The Roma, a people from Northern India and parts of Europe historically, who were once enslaved and segregated in Europe, much like African-Amer-icans were in America, still face much adversity in Romania. Police abuse towards the Roma in


Europe has put them in the spotlight for groups as well-known as Amnesty International, a group I had interned with in Washington D.C. I currently am learning Rromani, the language of the Roma, mostly spoken within Roma families, from an Avocatul Rromnilor –Roma Advocacy Lawyer- Ion Micuta- Little John- who has given me the gracious in-vitation of being part of the group Cine Suntem –Who We Are- that aims to empower the Roma community through education. Discrimination, unfortunately, is still an issue in many parts of Romania, but there are some who advocate for changing social policies. Rome had once invaded and colonized the in-digenous Dacian population of Romania under the leadership of General Traian. Statues of Romulus and Remus can still be seen in Romania, vestiges of Rome’s territorial expansion. Though Dacian-Roman history is often times romanticized, as when any group colonizes, atrocities of war such as rape, pillaging, and plundering probably occurred. I thought about how, for me, being

by comparison to other countries in the world and at the same time it was simply my identity. Point blank, the status of identity can change, for better or worse, anywhere in the world, it just takes time. When I have witnessed abuses towards Roma people in Romania I think, ‘This is not the way things are supposed to be and this is not the way they always will be.’ I aimed to explain this and everything else I had experienced to my family when they visited me in Romania.

to be culture shocked, as I showed my father and sister around Romania. I watched their eyes grow wide as our taxi passed horse-and-carts rolling down the road next to Mercedes cars on the highway to our hotel in Bucha-rest. I introduced them to my students in the orphanage in Ploiesti I work at, ate at my favorite restaurant in the city, and showed them the Clock Museum and Petrol Museum. Their eyes were wide with awe as the most they had understood about my world had been through Skype at my apartment and Google Maps. However, though I was Italian in Romania, I somehow doubted the Italian locals would consider me the same in their land. ‘Well, look on the bright side,’ I thought, ‘At least you’re going to Italy under the Obama administration. If you were going here just four years ago under the last guy you would have been tell-ing everyone you were Canadian.’ I showed my father and sister around Lipscani, the historic section of Bu-

for my family that had good vegetarian food the week before: “By vegetarian do you mean no meat?” “Yeah.”

“But that’s meat.” “No it’s not. It’s not fully grown yet. It’s like eating salad or potatoes . . . or chicken.” After touring Bucharest and Ploiesti, my family

-aly, I ran into a Peace Corps volunteer from Massachu-setts making the same pilgrimage to the homeland-oth-er-than-that-gorge-in-Tanzania and was struck by how small the world really was. Two New Englanders in the

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lagged sitting next to me and I remember their culture

exclaiming outside the Peoples’ Palace in Bucharest.

to take it all in. It’s beautiful!” Now, before they had even been 48 hours in one country, they were off to another. The plane coasted over the Carpathians, sailed over the Mediterranean Sea, and set down in some air-port that kind of just looked like any old airport. ‘I’m home in the land of my ancestors!’ I thought excitedly as we stepped off the generic tarmac. As the week progressed, I was able to actually see Italy beyond the airport terminal. In the morning on

our hotel staff were saying. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘All the stories are true. I do remember how to speak Italian.’ Whatever linguistics had been taught to my ancestors had been transferred genetically or subconsciously over the generations just waiting for the migrants to return to their birthplace. Then I realized why I understood what the staff was saying. They weren’t speaking in Italian at all. They were speaking Romanian. In fact, a lot of people in Italy speak Romanian because there are such large migrant populations from Romania in Western European countries like Italy, France, or Spain. Many of my students are raised by their grandparents because their parents are working abroad in other countries. Romanians are sometimes stigmatized for working in Western Europe and some blame it on the Roma, some of whom work abroad as well. Some Romanians argue that because the Roma make problems in the West ethnic Romanians are blamed as well because Western Europeans think all Romanians are the same. I personally don’t think that the Roma are making problems in the West more than


Romanians or Italians for that matter but that the Roma and Romanians are both subjected to an unfortunate set of stereo-types. Ultimately, I think that Roma Romanians and ethnic Romanians will have to work together to end these stereotypes for both their respective peoples. We toured around the Coliseum, the Parthenon, marveled at the paintings in the Cistine Chapel within the Vatican,

the Atlantic, we all enjoyed our time in both cities. It seemed as though ancient Roman ruins were scattered everywhere from inside museums to being propped up against Porta-johns. Ancient history was only a stone’s throw away anywhere in the city. The only thing that seemed to compete with the visual spectacle were the smells of Italian food. When I was a child, I used to think that the entire world had a staple diet of pasta and meatballs because that was what I ate every day. I knew that other cultures ate different kinds of food but I thought they only showed those types of food on T.V. because they were delicacies and behind the scenes everyone who couldn’t afford Pad Thai, Soul Food, Shepherd’s Pie or other delicacies went back to the daily grind of pasta and meatballs, the only part left from a once cultural Pangaea. I would go over my friends’ houses and have a variety of meals thinking I was treated to the highest culinary recipes and, when my friends came to visit me, I would apologize profusely under my breath when pasta and meatballs were served thinking we had offended them. When we arrived in Rome a part of me still resisted the menu of my childhood. I suggested alternatives to my family when they said we should get pizza. “Are you sure?” I queried, “I feel like we’ve been eating pizza and pasta our whole lives. There was a Chinese Restaurant just a few blocks back though that smelled fantastic! Oh, and that looks like a Lebanese place just down the block . . .” Eventually, I submitted and was surprised at how greasy the pizza was. ‘It tastes just like it does in America,’ I thought, dreaming of home. As it turned out, I was in for more of America than I had bargained for.

who talked loud enough to drown out any of the Italian locals trying to have a decent conversation; wore polo t-shirts, khaki shorts, sneakers; and seemed to be off in their own world. At one point, we passed an American couple who looked on at the statue of Romulus and Remus suckling the milk from a she-wolf they were raised by before Romulus killed Remus and founded Rome which he named after himself. When his girlfriend inquired as to what the statue represented, the man responded, “Oh, that’s just them ol’ boys, Ronnie an’ Rennie, suckin’ on Rome’s titties.” ‘Sweet Lord,’ I cringed inwardly,

and began to realize that foreigners may never be completely comfortable with Americans, for some time, at least, whether or not Obama is the President. I had the unfortunate occasion of being caught in Rome on the night of July Fourth which for me looked like Hell’s Angles and Mardi Gras had descended on the Pope. To the indigenous Italians, however, I can only expect that it probably seemed like an alternative form of terrorism. Motorcycles with Americans clad in black leather jackets, red, white, and blue helmets, beers, and beads swerved drunkenly up and down the Roman Boulevards and stumbled, intoxicated, on to the buses. When I was in Ploiesti last year, a couple of my friends talked about their own emigrant experience in Romania. They are French but their families are originally from Angola. They talked about how they liked Romania but it was dif-

to be in relationships. As my country’s independence day’s evening progressed I doubted that any Italian would ever talk to me again, never mind begin a relationship with any American, and it had nothing to do with our being perceived as exotic: Americans hollered inebriated obscenities in the bars, vomited on Roman statues, and stumbled, reeking of booze, into National Art Museums. After seeing the expressions of the locals I began to pray out of shame, ‘Dear God, if you exist,

Romania, looking out the window of the airplane at the Azul Mediterranean coastline, as my family returned to Bucharest. My family liked Romania the most because the people were so friendly and the culture was so interesting. On one of the last nights my dad asked what I thought of Italy and I responded that I thought it was pretty awesome.

‘Well’, I considered, thinking back to the 4th of July, ‘I think they might win by de facto.’ During the rest of the summer I taught at eight different camps over the course of nine weeks. When I arrived back in school my kids were surprised that I was able to commute between camps in Romania and my home in Italia. This time I didn’t bother to correct them. Fall has come to Romania and the leaves are changing from green to orange and brown on the chestnut trees up and down the Boulevard. Some of my students are excited for the American holiday of Halloween where

approached me as I was leaving the school and grinned. “I be a monster next week,” he informed me. “And I going to keel you and become school leader!” I thought back to the story of Romulus’s killing Remus to build his empire. “Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, but go ahead, kid,” I thought. “Knock me dead.”






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Kasa Magazine: Our Second Graduation Issue

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